Behind the Mask
by moonlighten
Summary: Aaron is a reluctant superhero. Robert, an ambitious low-level supervillain. Together, they work to bring down the head of the nefarious White family. [Superhero AU; Multi-chapter, in-progress.]
1. Chapter 1

_**Notes:** All I could think when Robert did his whole mirror routine in Thursday's episodes was that it was a shame he didn't have a moustache to twirl, just to hammer the point home some more. Superhero/supervillain AU thus ensued._

 _This is very loosely inspired by/a fusion of the Venture Bros. setting, in that Robert belongs to the Guild of Calamitous Intent (which here has various local branches, it's worldwide on the show, as far as I can tell), because I love the Venture Bros. approach to superheroes and, especially, supervillains. The Guild is an organisation of supervillains, who seem to largely treat villainy as a regular day job, and there's tonnes of bureaucracy, and lots of rules and regulations governing their behaviour. The Guild also approves superheroes to be assigned supervillains, and provides benefits, support etc. to the villains. (No Venture Bros. characters involved, though, just Emmerdale.)_

 _The heroes on the show don't seem to have an analogous organisation, but they have one here: the League._  
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* * *

-  
The crunch of footsteps approaching across the gravelled garage forecourt distracts Aaron from his reading, and he looks up from his magazine as an unfamiliar man draws near: tall and slim, with a mop of wind-swept blond hair.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Aaron calls out as he searches around for a patch of space amongst all the random papers and assorted car parts piled on top of the counter beside him that might be large enough to safely set down his mug.

"You go ahead and finish your tea," the man calls back. "No need to rush."

Aaron cranes his neck until the full sweep of the forecourt comes into view. As he'd suspected, he sees only the car he'd been working on before taking his break and no sign of the man's own vehicle, either there or – he cranes a little further – on the street beyond.

And the man certainly doesn't appear as though he's troubled by thoughts of sticky brakes or that strange screeching noise that his fan belt's making every time he turns a corner. He wanders back and forth, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the slightly too-tight trousers of his expensive-looking blue suit, examining every inch of the garage with a careful eye. He looks more like a tourist taking in the sights, though Aaron can't imagine that _Dingle and Dingle Automotives_ has ever been touted in any guide to Yorkshire as one of the Dales' must-see attractions.

As Aaron downs the last, tepid dregs of his tea, the man finishes his inspection and then strides towards him, coming to a halt only when he's so close that Aaron can smell his aftershave – something light and faintly spiced which probably cost just as much as his fancy suit – and hear that he's breathing a little more heavily than his gentle strolling about would seem to account for.

Aaron takes a couple of steps away from the man, putting a more comfortable distance between them. "Can I help you, mate?"

The man rocks back on his heels, glances around once more with a small smile. "I used to work here," he says.

"Yeah?" A nostalgic tour makes a little more sense.

"About ten years ago now."

"Bit before my time."

"Didn't think you'd remember me, but you'll have heard of me," the man says, his smile broadening. "I'm Robert Sugden." He gives Aaron a significant look as he says the name, as though it should mean something to him.

Which it does, though nothing so profound as to merit the portentous tone of Robert's voice. "Vic and Andy's brother, right?" he says. "You visiting them?"

"No, I've moved back here. My fiancée's family's bought Home Farm." Robert sidles towards him again. "And, you know, I've been assigned as your Arch."

"My what?" Aaron asks, puzzled.

"Your Arch," Robert says slowly, because, of course, repeating the same thing at half the speed explains _everything_.

"Sorry, you've lost me, mate."

"Archenemy?" Robert blinks at him, head canted at a quizzical angle. "You are Aaron Livesy, right? The mechanic?"

Aaron nods. "Well, I'm _a_ mechanic," he says. "Was it the garage or the coveralls that gave it away?"

"I didn't mean..." Robert pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, suggesting he may have a headache building. "Are you _The Mechanic_? The" – his voice drops, barely more than mouthing the last word – "superhero?"

"Oh," Aaron says. " _That_."

His mum had urged him to join the League when he was a teenager, thinking that taking part in the organised thuggery of superheroing would help keep him out of trouble; that he could work out his frustrations with state-sanctioned violence.

Aaron had stopped a few muggings in Hotten, attended a couple of meetings, but after the League higher-ups began pressing him to choose a costume, carry a grappling hook and wear a fucking _cape_ , it got a bit too ridiculous for him and he gave it all up as a bad idea.

He still pays his dues, though, makes sure he stays on the their roster, because League membership can be very useful. Say, just by way of example, your uncle's garage mysteriously catches on fire, then one flash of a League card and a vague mention of supervillains later, and the police are shaking your hand, thanking you for your service to the country, and the whole thing can be safely swept under the carpet, no threat of prison sentences for best mates or anyone else.

"Apparently, you've been signed up for six or seven years without picking yourself an Arch, so one had to be appointed for you."

"Which would be you."

"Which would be me." Robert frowns. "Didn't the League get in touch with you about this? I'm sure they should have sent you a welcome pack or something."

Aaron does dimly recall a thick envelope arriving week or so back that bore the League's logo, but he'd filed it in the bin without opening it, just as all their emails go straight to spam.

"Must have got lost in the post or summat," he says.

"Which means that you won't have filled in the proper Guild forms, either." Robert sighs heavily. "Look, why don't you come up to Home Farm this evening – let's say around seven – and we can get all the paperwork sorted out together. I won't be able to start arching officially until we do."  
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* * *

-  
Aaron had fully intended to sack off the meeting with Robert, but after digging out his battered copy of the League handbook and reading the section on archenemies – which states in no uncertain terms that his membership would be forfeit should he refuse the services of a League-appointed Arch – he has a reluctant change of heart.

Robert's 'around seven' was obviously supervillain code for 'seven on the dot', because Aaron's twenty-past arrival at Home Farm is met with glowering disapproval at the door, and thereafter an offer of a drink made through gritted teeth.

Directed by a brusque hand gesture, he goes through to the living room whilst Robert fetches them both beers, and amuses himself as he waits by studying the various ornaments and pieces of artwork on display.

Most of them are ugly enough that they must be antiques – he can think of no reason why anyone would give them house room, otherwise – and the only thing that holds his interest for more than a split second is a photograph in a plain silver frame set on the mantelpiece above the fire.

"My fiancée, Chrissie," Robert explains when he returns with their drinks, motioning towards the brunette woman with the neck of one of the bottles. "She's a level five supervillain already; probably going to make level six by the end of the year. And the old bloke's her dad, Lawrence. Level ten. Word is that he'll get a seat on the UK's Council of 13 next time one opens up.

"Supervillainy's just as much the family business as farm machinery."

"Right," Aaron says, nodding sagely even though he had had no idea that supervillains had levels before now, and still has no idea what the Council of 13 may be. It all sounds like nonsense. "And the kid? What level is he?"

"Lachlan? He hasn't joined the Guild yet. He's just freelance weird. Okay" – Robert presses a bottle into Aaron's hand then starts to head back towards the door – "you take this and sit yourself down, I'll go and get your file."

He reappears a moment later clutching a thick ring binder that he lays out open on the coffee table before joining Aaron on the sofa. "The Guild's really old fashioned," he says. "They insist everything's still got to be done on paper."

The first page in the binder is topped by a picture of Aaron; a headshot that he doesn't recall having been taken. It looks recent, even though he's never supplied a new one to the League to replace the original taken when he joined up at seventeen.

Beneath the picture is a list which outlines his vital statistics, which Robert reads aloud for him to confirm – date of birth, height, and a weight that is scarily accurate, down to the last pound – and following that, his superhero attributes.

"No powers?" Robert asks when he reaches them.

Aaron shakes his head.

"No costume?"

And again.

"No secret base?"

And one last time.

Robert looks crestfallen. "I don't suppose you've picked up a sidekick in the last few years, have you?"

"No," Aaron says. "There is a bloke over in Robblesfield who's got all that crap if you're into it. Cape, boy ward, powers an' all."

"What sort of powers?" Robert asks, perking up a little.

"He can float rocks, I think."

"And then what does he do with them?"

"I don't know." Aaron shrugs. "Chucks them at people, I guess?"

Robert deflates once more. "In that case, I think I'll stick with you. So," he says, turning to the next page, "it's a standard Guild contract: no lethal weapons, no endangering each other's family members, proportionate violence, et cetera, et cetera."

"Proportionate violence?" Aaron asks.

"Well, seeing as though we're both level ones so it'll be nothing more than mild peril. I'll probably just tie you up every now and again." Robert's eyes meander down Aaron's body, and then take the scenic route back to his face again. "Threaten you a little."

Heat rushes to Aaron's cheeks, his throat scorching bone dry. "Right," he rasps out distractedly. "Sounds great."

"Glad you think so," Robert says, giving him a bright, sunny grin. "All you have to do is sign here..."

He hands Aaron a pen, turns to another page in the binder, and Aaron scribbles his signature on the dotted line there, equally as distractedly.

"Good," Robert says. "Now everything's official." He holds out his hand to shake. It engulfs Aaron's own. "I look forward to working with you, Aaron."


	2. Chapter 2

Robert insists, rather vehemently, on taking Aaron on a tour of the house before he leaves, and Aaron resigns himself to being dragged from oversized room to oversized room to pretend admiration for yet more unsightly artwork and wallpaper that cost umpteen hundred pounds a roll.

But, instead, Robert merely gestures somewhat dismissively towards every doorway they pass – "Kitchen, second reception, bedroom, bedroom, bedroom." – until they reach Lawrence's study.

It's a light, airy room, sparsely furnished with sleek, modern furniture. The dark wooden bookcase that stretches floor to ceiling across the entire length of the back wall behind the glass and chrome desk looks distinctly out of place.

Robert beckons Aaron towards it. "The old man's a traditionalist," he says, skimming his fingers across the top of the books on the third shelf until he reaches a dusty, leather-bound copy of _Paradise Los_ t. "And about as subtle as a brick."

He tips the book forward and the bookshelf slides back with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the top of a concrete spiral staircase beyond.

"Come on," Robert says, waving Aaron on again. "I'll show you where the magic happens."

He leads Aaron down the stairs and out into a long corridor starkly lit by buzzing fluorescent lights recessed into the white ceiling high overhead. The tiles underfoot are gunmetal grey, the walls painted institutional green, and there doesn't appear to be anything even remotely magical about it on first glance. It looks like a hospital wing, albeit possibly an evil hospital wing, given the circumstances.

"Okay, so we'll start with the team room," Robert says, "where Lawrence's minions take their breaks."

He opens the first brushed metal door on their left onto a small, windowless room containing a short kitchen counter equipped with a sink, microwave and kettle, and two sagging brown sofas with balding upholstery, one of which is occupied by a hulking behemoth of a man with a face like a bulldog chewing an entire colony of wasps, who is stolidly munching his way through a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

He drops the packet onto the rubbish strewn table in front of him when Robert approaches, then springs to his feet and fumbles out a slightly sloppy salute. "Sir." He eyes Aaron suspiciously. "And...?"

"This is Aaron," Robert drops into that expectant pause. "I'm going to be arching him once the paperwork goes through. Aaron, this is Chris. Or, as Lawrence calls him, Number Five."

"Actually, it's Number Four now," Chris says, blushing and bashful; a thoroughly disconcerting and incongruous expression on six foot six lump of solid muscle. "Mark ended up in traction after our last run in with The Annihilator. He's going to be out of action for at least a year."

"That's terrible," Robert says, but he doesn't look particularly concerned and there's a hesitant quality to the words, a slight questioning intonation, that suggests he doesn't particularly believe in the truth of them. That he's hedging his bets, and unwilling to commit himself to any particular reaction to the news until Chris has revealed his own.

"Yeah, it is, but..." Chris' blush deepens. "I couldn't turn down the promotion, could I? It's a five percent pay rise and an extra day's holiday a year."

"Of course you couldn't," Robert assures him. "I guess congratulations are in order, then."

He shakes Chris' hand, and then Chris shakes Aaron's as they make their farewells, grinding Aaron's knuckles until they creak under the strain.

"Nice to have met you, mate," he says, sounding sincere enough that the sentiment actually seems genuine. "No doubt we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the future."

That, however, sounds like a threat.

Robert inclines his head towards Aaron's as they leave the room, says in a whisper, "Each one of Lawrence's minions is equipped with a shock baton, stab vest, tranquiliser dart gun, and about enough brains to fill an eggcup. They're all vicious, though. Highly trained. Except he'll have to recruit a new Number Ten now, so they'll be the weak link for a while."

Their next stop takes them to two wide, rectangular windows set into the corridor wall – one-way mirrors, Robert informs him – which overlook two perfectly white square rooms, both of which are empty save for a set of manacles hanging down from the ceiling and, even more worryingly, a drain in the centre of the floor.

"Interrogation rooms," Robert says. "Sound-proofed. Their doors can only be opened from the central control room."

After that, he shows Aaron an emergency escape hatch partially hidden beneath a brown-leaved and despondently drooping potted plant, then takes pains to point out that the grate opposite is only very loosely affixed to the wall and leads to some extremely spacious ductwork that a man of, oh, around Aaron's height, could feasibly crawl through and out to the vent behind the garage, if the need ever arose.

This information, coupled with Robert's unasked-for and unnecessarily detailed account of Lawrence's minions' equipment and combat readiness, seems to add up to a conclusion that Aaron finds a little baffling.

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asks. "Giving away your trade secrets? It almost sounds as though you'd _want_ me to be able to escape if I ever got myself locked up down here."

"Well, I'd definitely want you to have a fighting chance of escaping," Robert says. "I'd have to let you go eventually, either way, and it's all just part of the game."

"This is a game to you?"

"What else could it be to _any_ of us? But no-one's playing it to win. It's just... a complicated system of checks and balances. Superheroes are just people at the end of the day. People with potentially dangerous powers who think they know what's best for everyone. They need someone to challenge them; keep them honest. And supervillains need someone who'll keep them contained.

"None of it's real, but it _works_."

"What's any of that got to do with me, though?" Aaron asks. "I don't have any powers."

"Neither do I," Robert says, shrugging.

With that, Aaron suddenly realises exactly how woefully short-sighted he's been, blithely signing up to have this bloke low-level menace him for the foreseeable without knowing the first thing about him. "So what about the rest of it? Alias? Costume?" Most importantly: "Weapons?"

"No alias, no costume, no weapons." Robert grins. "Just me. Don't worry, Aaron. We're going to be just fine together. Now, onwards."

The next room is plain white like the interrogation rooms, but at least five times the size and ringed by a semi-circle of black leather seats, all facing what looks to be a metal dentist's chair with a thick coil of wires snaking out from the back of it.

There's a scythe-shaped pendulum hanging above it, its razor-sharp edges glittering as they catch the light bleeding through the doorway from the corridor.

"I thought you said the Guild didn't use lethal weapons," Aaron says.

"Lawrence arches Power-Man," Robert says. "You know, that guy over in Manchester that was bitten by a radioactive alien and it made him practically invulnerable. That thing probably just feels like it's tickling him. I won't be using it on you."

They move on then to a study that is a dark mirror to the one upstairs, decorated in black and blood red, and dominated by a huge, marble-topped desk. There is a single dark metal frame set upon it, which houses a picture of a man whom Aaron recognises as Lawrence, clinking his glass of champagne against those held by three other, bizarrely-dressed men.

Robert leans over his shoulder and points at the first of them, who is dressed in black goggles and an eye-searingly yellow suit. "That's The Hornet," he says. "He's basically an evil Ant-Man. Can shrink down to the size of an atom, that sort of thing."

The skinny bloke with the helmet covered in feathers is: "The Shrike. He grows metal spikes out of his hands, and, well, you can probably guess the rest."

"And the one with the purple top hat and cape is Baron Mesma. Who's a telepath and also not really one of the aristocracy. They're all members of the Council of 13."

Aaron's expression must unwittingly give some indication of his ignorance, because Robert then helpfully supplies: "They're the leaders of the Guild. Very exclusive club, and the only way in is by dead man's shoes. About half of them are immortal, too, so it can be a really long wait for a seat."

He straightens up and away from Aaron, smiles and says, "And this concludes today's tour. If you have any—"

"What's behind that?" Aaron asks, nodding his head towards the door on the opposite side of the corridor from the study; the only one Robert hasn't opened. It appears to be made of thick steel, and is covered in various locks, chains, and interlocking gears. There's a keypad beside it, and two cameras mounted above it, pointing down.

"No idea," Robert says. "I don't have a high enough clearance to find out yet."

Robert leads Aaron to the lift at the end of the corridor, and Aaron looks back down the impressively long length of it as they're waiting for the car to arrive.

"You've only been living here about a month," he says, "how the hell did you get all this built so fast?"

"Evil never sleeps," Robert says. "And it has fantastic contractors." He chuckles when Aaron looks at him askance, and then admits, "Okay, most of the rooms were already here when we moved in. This isn't the first time this house has been a supervillain lair, you know."

The lift moves quickly and eerily silently, and disgorges them in the garden before sinking back into the earth again, leaving no sign of its presence save a slightly darker ring of grass on the lawn.

Despite having ostensibly finished their tour, there are still a few more points of interest that Robert sees fit to draw Aaron's attention to as they wander around to the front of the house again: the minions' barracks – "Steer clear." – the kennels – "Steer _well_ clear." – and then finally a large, square pond, bordered by granite flags.

"Lawrence tried filling it with piranhas," Robert says as they peer into the dark, still waters. "The climate didn't agree with them, though; they were all belly up the next day. He's decided he's better off with koi for the time being."

"Man-eating koi?"

"No, just the regular sort. I don't think anyone's managed to weaponise koi yet. Lawrence wants to build a lab down by the stables, and get his pet mad scientist on the job. We're just waiting for the planning permission to go through."

Robert's fiancée intercepts them as they round the corner of the house, greeting Aaron with a broad, dazzling smile of what looks to be honest delight.

"Number Four said we had a visitor! You must be The Mechanic."

Aaron winces at the name. Put on the spot when he signed up and faced with what had looked at the time to be acres of blank space beneath the heading 'Alias' on the League application, he had simply filled it in with the first thing that popped into his head, just to get it over and done with. Admittedly, it's not the worst choice he could have gone with, but he finds it faintly embarrassing that he has an alias, _full stop_ , because it makes it seem as though he takes this whole thing a lot more seriously than he ever has in actuality.

He wishes he'd known he could have just stuck with his own name, like Robert has.

"You can call me Aaron," he says.

"Chrissie," she says, offering him her hand. Her grip is strong but slightly awkward, her fingers encumbered by several rings with huge, chunky stones. "Glad to have you joining the team." Her voice drops to an undertone that isn't really all that much of one. "Be gentle with him. This is his first time arching." Then (fractionally) louder again: "You'll have to join us for dinner some time."

She brushes a kiss against Robert's cheek, exhorts him not to be long in following her, and then takes her leave of them with a jangling, fluttering wave of her fingers.

Robert watches her go with what appears to be easy complaisance, but after she's disappeared from view and he turns towards Aaron once more, his expression pinches anxiously tight.

"I suggest you take her up on that offer," he says. "She can be dangerous, and you don't want to get on her bad side. Oh, and never accept a martini from her. Especially not if she's smiling."

Aaron wouldn't accept a martini from _anyone_ unless all of the other alcohol on the planet had spontaneously up and evaporated. "I'll bear that in mind," he says.

"Good." Robert falls silent, staring pensively into the middle distance for a moment before rousing himself to add, "I'll let you know when I get the final nod from the Guild to start arching you. Should take about a week or so, I think." His gaze sharpens when it falls on Aaron again and takes another leisurely stroll about his person. "If I were you, though, I'd start limbering up for it now."


	3. Chapter 3

For the next fortnight, evil stalks unchecked through the streets of Emmerdale: nefariously picking up a copy of the _Hotten Courier_ of a morning from David's shop; buying Americanos from the cafe; having deeply personal arguments with its future sister-in-law in a variety of embarrassingly public places.

Approaching Aaron's table in _The Woolpack_ when he's on his lunch break, carrying two pints and wearing a broad, sunny grin.

Robert sits down in the empty chair opposite Aaron without being invited to do so, and then holds one of the glasses out towards him. "For you," he says.

Aaron regards it with suspicion. "It's not poisoned or anything, is it?" he asks. "Only I've got to get back to the garage in ten minutes, and—"

"No, it's not poisoned," Robert snaps. He sounds honestly offended, and his grin fades a little around the edges.

"Right." Aaron takes the glass but sets it down on the table without taking a drink from it. Poisoned or not, he knows his limits. One pint in the middle of the work day is pushing at the top end of them and he's already had that. "What is it in aid of, then?"

Robert's smile kicks up a couple of lumens in intensity again. "We're celebrating."

"We are? Why?"

"Because," Robert says, dragging the word out whilst he fishes around in his coat pocket, only voicing the final sibilant when he extracts his wallet, "the Guild got their arses in gear at last; dotted all the i's, crossed all the t's." He draws forth a matte black card, and presents it to Aaron with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish of his wrist. "We're completely official now."

"Great," Aaron says, staring down at the card and failing to muster up even a single iota of enthusiasm.

It's the same size and weight as a credit card, and feels to be made of the same sort of material. The front is embossed with the Guild logo – a red dragon hopping across the top of a globe – and the back bears a long string of digits that Aaron presumes is Robert's Guild membership number, his name, and a telephone number with a Leeds area code.

"The regional Guild headquarters," Robert explains. "In case you have any complaints about the service."

"Is that everything?" Aaron asks, getting out his own wallet and tucking the card inside, hidden behind his driving license. "I need—"

"Not so fast." Robert grabs at the sleeve of Aaron's hoodie as he starts getting to his feet, pulling him back down into his seat again. "We need to talk about our upcoming... meeting."

"Meeting?"

"For arching," Robert says in a stagey whisper that carries just as well as his normal tone. "I was thinking tomorrow at Home Farm. Is two okay with you?"

"Oh, right." Aaron tries the idea on for size and discovers he quite likes the fit of it. He had presumed that he'd have to be on his guard at all times against spontaneous outbursts of harassment, but it sounds as though this arching rubbish might turn out to be far more civilised and less disruptive than he'd been imagining. "I didn't realise we'd be making appointments."

"Normally, we wouldn't, and it's not really proper protocol..." Robert leans closer, his voice dropping into a true whisper. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour, though. Just this once. Lawrence doesn't believe I really have what it takes to be a supervillain, and I want to prove him wrong. He'll be there tomorrow, and if I put on a good show of arching you first time out, hopefully that'll be enough to finally impress him."

That idea, on the other hand, is distinctly uncomfortable, as Aaron doesn't relish the prospect of having an audience for whatever acts of bondage and light intimidation Robert might have planned. "And why should I do you any favours?" he asks. "I thought we were archenemies now? Wasn't that the point of all this?"

"Well, technically, yes, but... Look, we're going to have to do this sooner or later, anyway, and I can tell you're not exactly keen on this whole thing. If you do this for me now, I promise I won't arch you again for the rest of the year. And I'll owe you one, too."

Being able to forget about arching and super-anything-ing for a month or so is reason enough and more for Aaron. "Fine," he huffs out. "But you'd better make it quick, and no funny business."

"Funny business," Robert echoes, quirking one eyebrow questioningly.

"Ray guns, killer robots..." Aaron flounders slightly, lacking further inspiration. He's never been interested enough in the super- community to keep up with their preferred methods of doing damage to one another. "Supervillain shit."

Robert smirks at the description. "Like I said before, I don't use weapons. It's just going to be you and me."

"With Lawrence watching on."

"With Lawrence watching on," Robert concedes. "And it'll be over and done with before you know it, trust me."

Which sounds somewhat ominous, but Aaron doesn't have time to worry about that. A quick glance at his phone confirms he's already running late. "Okay," he says. "You win. Home Farm, two o'clock."

This time, when Aaron goes to stand up, Robert doesn't try and stop him. He does look a little disappointed, though.

"Aren't you going to have your beer?" he asks.

"Wasn't planning on," Aaron says. "I told you I needed to get back to work."

"Fine," Robert says, "but just so you're aware what you're passing up, that's probably the last pint I'm ever going to buy you. We won't be able to... fraternise from now on."

"That's no great loss, is it? We didn't _fraternise_ before, either."

"True, but we're bound by Guild rules here on in. No talking to each other outside the arching."

For no earthly reason that Aaron can fathom, Robert both looks and sounds slightly saddened to be imparting this information, as though he expects it to induce something in the way of weeping, wailing, and rending of garments at the injustice of it all.

"Fair enough." Aaron shrugs. "I suppose this means I won't be coming around to yours for tea, after all."

"Oh, no, that invitation still stands," Robert says. "And Chrissie'll probably be sending you another for our New Year's party, too. Group get-togethers are Guild-sanctioned, it's just one on ones that are off the table."

It's Aaron's turn to be disappointed. "Fantastic," he says dully. "Right, I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then."

Robert's wide, beaming smile returns, full force. "Can't wait," he says.  
-

* * *

-  
There's a small crowd gathered outside Home Farm when Aaron drives up to it at two o'clock on the dot the next day. Not only Robert and the threatened Lawrence, but Chrissie and Lachlan, too, and flanking the four of them, Chris and another of Lawrence's minions: a woman of similarly gargantuan proportions who looks as though she could be Chris' twin.

It's a far bigger audience than Aaron had been lead to believe would be in attendance and had consequently prepared himself to face. He eases his foot off his car's accelerator, shifts his hands on the steering wheel, and seriously considers turning around and heading straight back home again.

The knowledge that he'd be likely be throwing away his League-issued Get Out of Jail Free card if he did so is the only thing that keeps him trundling along the final few feet of drive.

He parks up, takes a moment to breathe deeply and evenly until his heart stops feeling like it's about to hammer a hole through his ribcage, and then, very reluctantly, steps out of the car.

Robert immediately ambles over to him, his steps slow and rolling, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking every inch as though he's just setting out on a pleasant stroll.

"Glad you could make it," he calls out. Then, more quietly, adds, "There's no need to look so worried. This is going to hurt me much more than it's going to hurt you."

"What is?"

Robert glances back over his shoulder at the group gathered in front of the house. They're far enough away that Aaron can see nothing but the faintest smudged brushstroke suggestions of their expressions, but he thinks they're all smiling. Chris gives him a thumbs up.

"The show we're going to put on for them," Robert says. "And it is going to be a show. Only pretend. I want it to look as believable as possible, though, so..." He studies Aaron with speculatively narrowed eyes. "Maybe you could threaten me a little to start with? 'You'll never get away with this'? Something like that."

"No chance," Aaron says, because amateur dramatics had never been part of their agreement. He's no good at them, and he knows he'd feel like a complete wanker saying such things, besides.

"We'll stick to the physical stuff, then." Robert straightens up out of his slight slouch, squares his shoulders, and says, "Punch me."

He appears serious, determined, but Aaron shakes his head. "I'm not going to punch you for no reason."

"But you do have a reason, Aaron," Robert says. "Because, if you don't, you can forget that promise, and I'll arch you every single day for the rest of the year, instead. You don't have to do it hard. I can just make it _look_ like you did."

The smirk his mouth settles into is practically begging to be knocked from his face, and Aaron's right hand forms a fist seemingly of its own volition.

Although Aaron's involvement with the public work of the League had begun and ended with foiling a few muggings, he'd still attended one of the classes they'd put on for a couple of years afterwards. It had been run by a tiny old man with a face like a desiccated walnut, and purported to teach what the League termed 'street fighting', which involved some improvised weaponry and dirty tactics, but a great deal more in the way of theatricality; something he'd never really understood the point of before he heard Robert's explanation of how the Guild operated the other day.

He knows how to pull his punches, and, it seems, Robert knows how to take them.

He rolls his head with the blow, and although Aaron's knuckles brush only glancingly against his jaw, Robert still clutches at it like it's been shattered, and then staggers back a few steps, onto the neatly-trimmed lawn behind him.

He gives Aaron a sharp grin. Says, "Punch me again."

Aaron obliges, and again Robert acts as though he's been struck with real weight behind it. Clutches, staggers, then holds out a quelling hand, palm flattening out against Aaron's chest when he draws near.

He looks across to the house again, swears quietly. "Angle's all wrong," he says. "Don't suppose _you_ can see how many minions are out front, can you?"

Aaron tilts his head back. "Two. Chris and Lady-Chris." A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he amends that to: "Three. Another one's just joined them."

"And what are they doing?"

"Waving, I think."

Robert releases a long, wavering sigh. "Time to shake things up a bit, then," he says, curling the fingers splayed across Aaron's chest, taking hold of a handful of fabric at the front of his shirt.

He tugs Aaron forwards with a sudden jerk of his arm, and then just as quickly pushes him back, catching Aaron off-balance. He stumbles, reflexively catching hold of Robert's shoulders to steady himself, but a fraction too slow to keep himself from falling, and he topples back, pulling Robert after him.

He hits the ground heavily enough to knock the air out of his lungs, and Robert's breath is stuttering too, albeit for entirely different reasons. The bastard's _laughing_ , and as soon as bright blooms of concussed colour have stopped blossoming across the front of Aaron's eyes, he shoves him hard.

Aaron tries to scramble to his feet, but Robert grabs at his trouser leg and hauls him back down.

There then follows one of the strangest fights Aaron has ever been involved in. Robert doesn't even try to hit him, just carries on shoving, grappling and pulling; his only objective, apparently, to keep Aaron from standing again.

And because he doesn't attempt to land a single punch, Aaron doesn't either. He has no idea _why_ , as the only result is that the whole stupid farce is dragged out for far, far longer that it needs to be, until they're both panting, dripping with sweat, and Robert's once pristine white shirt has turned an almost uniform mud brown.

Then something trills from the depths of Robert's jacket pocket. It sounds like a text alert, and Robert holds up one finger, a clear signal that he wants Aaron to stop for a moment so he can fucking _check on it_.

Aaron, who is crouched above him clasping a lump of turf that he'd been quite prepared and willing to force-feed Robert in the next moment, rocks back on his haunches, scowls down at him, and says, "Can't that wait? We're sort of in the middle of something here, aren't we?"

"Afraid not," Robert says, smirking once more. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were enjoying yourself so much."

"I'm not," Aaron says, and he _isn't_. He'd just allowed himself to get carried away with the momentum of whatever the fuck it was they were doing. He hurriedly opens up his hand and lets the turf-lump fall. "Carry on, then."

Robert takes something out of his pocket, but it's not his mobile. It's a small black cube, which fits neatly into the centre of his cupped palm. All of its visible sides are blank, save the topmost one, upon which a blue light is flashing.

"What the fuck's that?" Aaron asks.

"Good news," Robert says. "Well, good for me. Not so good for you." He smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I promise this won't hurt."

Before Aaron can react, or even finish processing what he's just said, Robert reaches up and presses the cube to Aaron's left temple.

The blue light flares outward for an instant, and then everything goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

Aaron is irritated back into consciousness by meaty fingers prodding at the side of his neck, and when he cracks open his eyes, Chris' equally meaty face is hovering above him, his bulging brow furrowed.

"Welcome back, mate," he says with a grin, then calls out: "He's awake, boss."

Lawrence hoves into view beside Chris. "Splendid!" he says with twinkly-eyed good humour. "We were starting to worry about you."

He clasps Aaron's knee briefly, but despite his professed concern, it's no reassuring squeeze he gives. His fingers dig in so deeply that it feels as though he's trying to detach Aaron's kneecap.

"What happened?" Aaron asks. The words grate together like gravel in his mouth and emerge sounding thin and abraded.

"You've been out cold for almost an hour," Lawrence says. " _Someone_ clearly doesn't understand the meaning of 'proportionate violence'."

"It was an accident! I haven't quite got the hang of that thing yet. It didn't come with instructions, you know."

Robert's voice. Aaron tries to prop himself up on his elbows, turn his head towards the source of it, but his arms just twitch feebly and his brain feels to slosh from one side of his skull to the other, battering against the bone.

He groans, and Lawrence tuts disapprovingly. "Oh, for... Number Four, help the poor lad sit up, would you?"

Chris grasps Aaron's shoulders and doesn't so much help as haul Aaron up into a sitting position. Aaron's head swirls again, and everything else swirls with it; colour and light bleeding together to form a dull, muddied blur.

He hunches forwards and blinks frantically until his vision begins to clear and recognisable shapes and details drift into focus out of the fog: the black leather sofa beneath him; the blood red walls surrounding him; the dusky grey deep pile carpet underfoot. A wide, marble-topped desk behind which Lachlan is sitting, messing about with his phone and not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything that's happening around him, concussed 'superhero' very much included.

They've brought him to dark study beneath Home Farm, then. Aaron wonders whether he's going to be expected to use of the escape hatch or badly-secured vent Robert had shown him on their tour to make his way out of here. If so, Chris will likely have to carry him there, because his legs feel like they've been replaced by overcooked spaghetti.

He looks towards the door, considering his options, and sees Robert leaning against the wall beside it, his fiancée standing at one shoulder, Lady-Chris looming at the other. He's clearly fresh from the shower, his face lightly flushed and hair damp, and wearing a clean suit, whereas Aaron has just been left to air dry. There are small twigs still stuck in his hair, blades of grass clinging to the knees of his jeans, and mud dried in clumped splatters across his skin.

He scowls at Robert as he rubs at the largest patch on his arm, powdering it into dust. Robert smiles at him serenely.

"Here, you should drink this," Chrissie says, hurrying forward to hand Aaron a glass.

Mindful of Robert's advice, he sniffs at the clear liquid it contains cautiously, and smells nothing; takes an even more cautious sip, and tastes nothing. It seems safe to assume that it's just water, and he drains the rest in a single gulp.

It sooths the raw feeling in his throat sufficiently that he sounds a little less like a forty-a-day smoker when he asks, "What happens now?"

"There's nothing else our end. Unless Robert...?" Lawrence glances towards Robert, who shakes his head. "No? Then you're free to leave whenever you wish."

"Really? That's it?" Aaron asks, perplexed. "I thought..."

He'd thought he'd be marched off to one of the interrogation rooms for some manacling and menacing, or suspended over the fish pond by his ankles and threatened with whatever mild physical discomfort koi were capable of inflicting, but if those possibilities haven't occurred to either the Whites or Robert, it's doubtless in his best interests not to voice them. He swallows back the rest of his words and stays silent.

"I think you've done quite enough for two level ones on your first time out," Lawrence says. He claps first Aaron and then Robert on the back, full of avuncular cheer, as though congratulating them on having played a great round of golf or something of the sort. "Both of you boys did very well."

Robert beams at the compliment, clearly pleased, but it just washes over Aaron like so much water. He doesn't care if Lawrence thinks that their pointless grappling was the finest example of supervillainy he'd ever laid eyes on, because he's covered in itchy mud, his head's still pounding, and all he really wants is to have a hot shower and then a long lie down, preferably somewhere dimly lit, quiet, and, above all, lacking in spectators. Ideally, his own bed.

It seems prudent to leave whilst the going is good, and before anyone has any changes of heart about tying him up.

"Okay," he says, "if that _is_ everything, I should be getting home, and..."

When he leans his weight forward, the room starts spinning around him again, and his knees tremble, buckle, and then give out completely, pitching him straight back down onto the sofa.

"You're in no fit state to drive," Lawrence says chidingly. "Number Four, could you—"

"I'll drive him," Robert cuts in. "I'm going to the pub anyway. Meeting Vic for a drink."

"Well, if you're sure..." Lawrence says, sounding dubious.

"It's fine," Robert says, grabbing hold of Aaron's elbow with one hand, laying the other, fingers spread wide and steadying, between his shoulder blades. "No problem."  
-

* * *

-  
Despite Robert's breezy and nonchalant reassurances, they don't even manage to make it to the door before Aaron trips over his own feet, stumbles into Robert, and almost brings them both crashing down to the floor.

Chris steps in then, brisk and efficient, and half-drags, half-carries Aaron the rest of the way; down the corridor, up in the lift, and across the lawn to the front of the house once more. Aaron's vision's still swimming, his legs still shaking, but whenever he loses his balance and collides with Chris' side, it's like running up against a brick wall. Chris doesn't falter, he doesn't let Aaron fall, and Aaron reaches his car physically intact, even if his dignity is somewhat tattered.

Chris bundles him into the passenger seat, squeezes his shoulder, and then sternly tells Robert to, "Drive carefully," before lumbering away.

Robert stands beside the car and watches him go, but the light's too bright outside for Aaron to do the same for long. He screws his eyes closed, tips his head to rest against the back of his seat, and concentrates on his breathing in the hope that it will distract him from the ache that is slowly spreading out from his head to permeate the rest of his body. Even his teeth hurt, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

"That went even better than I was expecting," Robert says a moment later when he clambers into the driving seat.

"For you, maybe." Aaron snorts. "I thought you didn't use weapons?"

"I don't."

"What was that thing, then?"

"This?" Fabric rustles, the car rocks slightly, and then Robert drops something into Aaron's hand, which is resting, lax and open-palmed, against the top of his thigh. "It isn't a weapon."

Against their stinging protests, Aaron opens his eyes a slit. The cube is dark now, and though he holds it up close to his face, carefully studies every inch of it, he can't discern a single imperfection in its smooth sides. There's no sign of lights or buttons, or any clue as to its true purpose. It's lightweight enough that it feels as though it might be hollow, but when he flicks his fingers against it experimentally, it doesn't _sound_ as though it is.

"It does have a self-defence mode," Robert continues, "but that's not what it was designed for."

"Which is...?"

"You can use it to communicate, record things, open locks; all sorts, really. It's like the Swiss Army Knife of evil. Cutting-edge Guild technology."

He reaches out to take it back, but Aaron tightens his grip around it. "If you're planning on ever using it on me again, make sure you figure out the settings properly first. It feels like my brain's been scrambled."

"I will," Robert promises with what appears to be real sincerity before plucking the cube from Aaron's fingers and pocketing it. He then holds his empty hand out expectantly. "Give me your keys, then, and I'll get you home."  
-

* * *

-  
Despite the brevity of their journey, the hum of the car's engine and the low rumbling of its wheels soon lulls Aaron into a light doze; one that's finally broken not by Robert's heavy foot on the brakes, or the screech of tyres as he takes corners far too fast, but by him muttering under his breath, "What the fuck?"

They're already parked up in the car park behind The Woolpack, and when Aaron rolls his head a little, follows the direction of Robert's gaze, he can see Ross Barton, lurking by the pub's back door.

Robert's apparently so transfixed by him that he hadn't noticed Aaron stirring, and acting on an instinct he can't begin to explain, Aaron takes pains to keep it that way. He stays quiet and still, and a moment or two of silent glowering Robert launches himself out of the car and stomps off across the tarmac towards Ross.

The conversation that follows looks to be a heated one, and judging by the curt hand gestures Robert makes – towards Ross, to the car, and then back to Ross again – if this was a planned meeting, it had been planned to take place elsewhere.

Eventually, the swing of Robert's arms becomes less exuberant, the scowls fade from both his and Ross' faces, and Ross exchanges an envelope that he withdraws from a back pocket of his trousers for one that Robert produces from the inner lining of his jacket.

Then, Robert points towards the bag Ross is holding. The tightness of Ross' grip on its handles and the shiftiness of his eyes when it's brought to notice suggests that it might as well have SWAG printed across its side, and the furtive glance he sweeps across the car park before opening it just confirms it.

Robert paws through the bag's contents for a while, and then holds something aloft that's so small that Aaron can't see it clearly. Ross shakes his head. Robert's face turns puce and he snarls out something Aaron can't hear. Ross shakes his head again.

Shoulders slumping as though in defeat, Robert takes out his wallet, extracts a thick wad of notes and holds them out towards Ross. Ross snatches them from him, and takes his leave with a wide grin and fatuously exaggerated wave.

Robert glares after him until he's disappeared from view, then stomps back to the car again, his steps gradually growing lighter and slower when he realises Aaron is watching him.

He opens the passenger door almost gingerly, opens his mouth with what appears to be even less enthusiasm, and ultimately closes it again without saying a word.

Aaron inclines his head towards Robert's clenched hand. "Been buying something from Ross?" he asks.

"No," Robert says, his fingers twitching. "Not buying." They twitch some more. "He just found something he thought I should have." His hand unfurls, revealing a ring nestled in his palm. "It's one of Chrissie's."

"He 'just found' it, did he?" Aaron says, cocking one eyebrow sceptically.

"So he says."

"And you paid him for it, because...?"

"It was a reward," Robert says smoothly. "I wouldn't want this falling into the wrong hands."

He slides his thumbnail beneath the ring's huge, multi-faceted stone, and it lifts up to reveal a shallow, gold-lined depression filled with a fine white powder.

"What is it?" Aaron asks.

"Honestly? I don't know," Robert says. "But _that's_ why you don't ever want to drink her martinis. Her weapon of choice."

"Right," Aaron says, nodding even though he's not convinced by any part of Robert's story, save the part about the killer martinis. Robert sounds confident enough in his words, though, that it seems likely they'll be his final ones on the subject. "And what about the envelope? Did Ross just find that lying about the place, too?"

Robert's lips thin, and his eyes look wild and hunted, but only for an instant. "That was what you'd probably call 'supervillain shit'," he says in a perfectly even tone, his face now a blank mask void of expression. "Nothing you need to worry about."


	5. Chapter 5

Robert's definition of fraternisation is apparently broad enough that it encompasses basic politeness, because for the past couple of weeks, he has acted as though Aaron has ceased to exist.

Even when they'd found themselves seated next to each other at the pub's bar, or Aaron unwittingly interrupted the precarious temporary ceasefire of a Sugden family dinner in its back room, Robert didn't react to the sound of his voice and his gaze glided straight over him, as if there's now just a blank spot in his world in place of the one Aaron used to inhabit.

It's been surprisingly irritating, to not even be granted the common decency of eye contact and the mutual acknowledgement that they're two people momentarily sharing the same space, but as Robert has also held up his end of the bargain as regards laying off the arching for the time being, Aaron hasn't really felt as though he's got much room to complain about his behaviour.

It does, however, render the text Aaron has just received somewhat puzzling. It's from an unfamiliar number, signed with Robert's name, and claims that his car's broken down and he needs a Mechanic. The capitalisation seems deliberate given that he hasn't used any anywhere else in the message.

That, even more than the fact that it's Aaron's day off and he shouldn't have to be dealing with breakdowns – whether they're imaginary or not – inclines him towards ignoring it, as it smacks of the super-crap he'd been promised a holiday from.

His phone trills again as he's sliding it back into his pocket.

 _i promise its not a trap :)_

The emoticon is hardly reassuring.

Aaron's in the midst of writing a reply informing Robert that he should piss off and get in touch with Cain if he really is having car trouble when a third text arrives; an all caps assertion that Robert's straits are very dire, his situation extremely urgent, and only Aaron can possibly help him.

Aaron stares down at the words, anticipating a fourth text, maybe even a call, because it seems pretty much inevitable. Robert's clearly determined to try and push on with whatever the hell it is he's planning.

He should probably just turn his phone off. (He doesn't.)

He shouldn't be intrigued. (He is.)

Telling himself he's just sparing himself a future headache, Aaron sets off to pick the tow truck up from the garage.  
-

* * *

-  
It isn't the white Audi that Aaron's seen Robert driving around the village that's pulled up in a lay-by along the narrow road that runs through the wood- and farmland between the village and Hotten, but a long, low-slung, and sleek black car that looks like overcompensation given physical form.

Aaron studies it closely as he eases the truck past, because he's never seen one quite like it before. There's a malevolent red light emanating out of the boot and protrusions with a disconcerting resemblance to blades at the centre of the hubcaps. The badge on the bonnet is the Guild's world-hopping dragon in chrome.

"This your work car?" Aaron says as he approaches Robert after parking the truck.

Robert nods. "It was an early wedding present from Chrissie," he says. "Custom build. All the extras."

He looks insufferably pleased about that, proud, and is doubtless poised to boast about those extras at length should Aaron give him the tiniest hint of encouragement.

"What's wrong with it, then?" Aaron asks instead, because he thinks it's better for his peace of mind if he doesn't find out what extras supervillains find worthwhile additions to their vehicles. Those probably _are_ blades on the wheels.

Robert's head droops a little despondently, but he is quick to rally himself again, and say, "The engine's started making this... really weird noise. Like it's screaming."

He starts the car to demonstrate, and the engine purrs into well-tuned life at first, but a moment later it starts emitting a grating, high-pitched screeching that sets Aaron's teeth on edge, and prompts him to clamp his hands over his ears.

"Shut it off," he urges Robert, "and pop the bonnet. I'll take a look."

Robert nods again, the screaming abruptly cuts out, and once Aaron's ears have stopped ringing, he props open the bonnet and peers inside.

There's absolutely nothing there that he recognises, just a Gordian knot tangle of pipework, wide vents spewing forth hissing clouds of steam, and a series of black cubes that look very much like the one Robert had used to knock him out, though on a much larger scale. At the centre of it all sits a Y-shaped glass tube filled with glowing blue liquid, which is hooked up to a spiderweb of thin wires.

Robert leans up against the front bumper beside Aaron, close enough that Aaron is enveloped in the pungent cloud of his aftershave once more and their arms brush together briefly when Robert stretches his out to point at the tube. "I think that might be the flux capacitor," he says, one corner of his mouth curling up into a crooked smile.

He taps at the glass, and something deep in the bowels of the car makes an angry buzzing noise, like he's just stirred a jar of bees into flight. From the looks of the rest of the engine, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility that he has done.

"I can't help you," Aaron says, taking a step back from the car and away from Robert. "I've never seen anything like _this_ before."

"It's okay," Robert says. "There's nothing wrong with it, anyway. It's just one of the extras. The 'Tortured Soul' setting, which I—"

"So this was a trap, then?" Aaron growls, folding his fingers in towards his palms. Readying himself to throw a punch.

"No, not a trap." Robert holds his own hands up, fingers spread wide, in what is obviously meant to be a placating gesture; a demonstration that they're empty. "But I admit I did ask you here under false pretences. I just wanted to speak to you alone, and, well, you know that's against the rules."

"What the hell would we need to talk about?"

"The letter you saw Ross give me." Robert reaches slowly into one of his jacket pockets. Aaron watches him carefully and keeps his fists clenched. "I think you should look at it."

Aaron relaxes only when Robert draws out nothing more than that familiar envelope, shakes out his hands and takes it from him. It contains a single sheet of paper, covered on both sides by a continuous string of seemingly random letters and numbers.

"It's some sort of code?" Aaron guesses. "I can't read this."

"Neither can I. I've got someone working on it, but I know..." Robert looks around himself warily, and then sidles closer again, his voice dropping low as he continues with: "I know it's important. I think Lawrence is planning something big. Something dangerous, and definitely not Guild-approved. I haven't been able to figure out _what_ yet, but, hopefully, that's going to help me."

"Okay, but what's it got to do with me?"

Robert takes a deep breath in and then sighs it out slowly. "With Lawrence and Chrissie backing me, I could have had my pick of any of the arching jobs on offer around here. I could have chosen one of the heavy hitters, someone with powers, and been on my way to level two in a matter of months, but I went with you instead. Do you want to know why?"

"Not particularly," Aaron says. "You're going to tell me anyway, though, aren't you."

Robert flashes his teeth in something that bears only superficial resemblance to a grin. "Because you were based in Emmerdale. It was a stroke of luck, that; a level one hero practically on my doorstep who hadn't been assigned an arch yet." Robert glances sidelong at Aaron. "Someone who could help me."

"I thought we were supposed to archenemies. Why would I do that?"

Robert lifts his shoulders in a loose shrug. "Because you're one of the good guys."

"Right." Aaron snorts derisively. "Sorry to break it to you, mate, but I don't really take the whole 'superhero' thing all that seriously. I just—"

"That wasn't what I meant," Robert says, the tense line of his mouth softening slightly. "Look, Aaron, when I say dangerous, I really do mean dangerous. This isn't proportionate violence, and it isn't a game. People could get killed. They already might have been."

"And how can I help you, then? You know I don't have powers, or weapons, or any of that crap. What use would I be against a... a level ten supervillain or whatever?"

"You've already helped me," Robert says.

Aaron blinks at him, puzzled. "I have?"

"The other day at Home Farm; distracting everyone so Ross could sneak in and steal that letter for me."

And anything else he could get his hands on, judging by the bulging bag he'd been clutching when he met up with Robert.

"I never heard anything about a break in," Aaron says, frowning. Normally, that sort of gossip would have spread through the village like wildfire; been chewed over in _The Woolpack_ before Lawrence had even got off the phone to the police to report it.

"You wouldn't," Robert says. "If word ever got out that Lawrence's lair got robbed by a non-Guild thief, he'd be demoted to at least a level eight so fast his head would still be spinning." He chuckles dryly at the thought. "Anyway, that's all you'd need to do. Provide a distraction. Be my alibi, occasionally."

"More arching," Aaron says morosely.

"Yeah, I might have been a bit premature in putting an stop to that for the time being," Robert admits, swiftly adding when Aaron opens his mouth to protest, "But it'll be just the same as the last time. Completely for show, and neither of us gets hurt. Much. I'll do all of the dirty work."

"And we'll really be saving people's lives doing this?"

"We will."

Robert meets Aaron's eyes steadily, and his expression is relaxed and open, giving every appearance of honesty. Aaron doesn't trust him enough yet to really believe he's telling the full truth, but, on balance, the risk of being wrong on that score – of telling him to piss off as he hadn't earlier and walking away – seems as though it might be too great to chance it.

He sighs in resignation. "Just let me know when you need me."


	6. Chapter 6

Aaron wakes slowly, his consciousness of the outside world dribbling back in fits and starts.

First, there's a sense of movement, then a low, droning hum and the warm, earthy scent of new leather, and finally, and most disturbingly, a tight, constrictive pressure bearing down around his wrists.

He rotates them a little, and feels the rough drag of coarse threads catching against his skin (probably rope), then gives his fingers an experimental wriggle. The pressure lessens significantly (not very well tied).

Cracking open his eyes, he's unsurprised to find his vision is filled, side to side, by matte black and shiny red, which seems to be the villainous colour palette of choice. Opening them all the way, he's greeted not only by the, equally unsurprising, discovery that he's apparently been bundled into the passenger seat of Robert's work car, but a skull-splitting, stomach-churning headache of the sort that he's hitherto only ever experienced in conjunction with hangovers and his one previous encounter with the Cube of Evil.

As his last, coherent memory is of walking down a road on the outskirts of the village whilst in complete possession of his faculties and entirely sober, the latter would seem to be the most likely culprit.

"I thought you said you'd make sure you knew how that thing worked properly before you used it again," he says.

No reply is forthcoming, so Aaron very cautiously and carefully turns his head towards the driver's seat. Robert is sitting ramrod straight upon it, his aggressively-correct ten-to-two grip on the steering wheel so tight that all of his knuckles have turned white.

"And," Aaron continues, "I thought you were supposed to give me a heads up before you pulled this sort of crap, not just _kidnap_ me off the fucking street."

Robert's eyebrows twitch a little in response to the irritated growl roughening Aaron's words, but otherwise he remains entirely silent and impassively still.

"Also, you're shite at knots." Aaron twists his wrists, and the rope falls away. He holds his now-unfettered hands up with a facetious, "Ta da!"

Robert appears both unimpressed and unperturbed by Aaron's escape artistry. His eyes never deviate from their fixed stare on the road in front of them, and the car rolls along just as smoothly as before, its bizarre engine purring like a contented cat.

It's an oddly soothing sound, and concentrating on it helps ease the banging pain in Aaron's head slightly. He leans back in his seat, and watches the scenery spooling past the window to his side. It's nothing but dry stone walls and fields as far as the eye can see: deep into sheep country, and getting deeper. They're miles from the village now, and Home Farm.

"So, what's the plan?" he asks, when the monotony of pastoral tranquillity begins to become grating rather than soothing. "You wanting to show off in front of Lawrence again?"

Robert stirs himself sufficiently to shake his head this time, albeit almost imperceptibly.

"He's up to something shady?"

"No."

Speech. That's progress, at least. Sullen, monosyllabic progress, and clearly reluctantly conceded, but somewhat encouraging, all the same. Aaron presses on.

" _You're_ up to something shady," Aaron guesses, "and you need me as an alibi, like you said you would."

"No."

"What the fuck is this, then?" Aaron snaps, the last dregs of his patience finally draining away.

Robert's jaw tightens, and he speaks his next words through gritted teeth. "I'm your arch; what do you _think_ I'm doing?"

"This is supposed to be you _arching_ me?" Aaron snorts incredulously. "First off, I thought we agreed we weren't actually going to do that shit for real. And second" – he gestures around the car with his very much free hand, making sure to encompass the luxurious upholstery of his seat and the speedometer – "this isn't exactly scaring me, mate. You're not even breaking the speed limit!"

"Fine." A muscle beneath Robert's clenched jaw twitches spasmodically, and he reaches over to fiddle with the touchscreen embedded in the dashboard to his right. "If you're not happy with the service..."

"I'm not happy with _any_ of this, so—"

Aaron's next word remains trapped in his throat, because with one last, decisive tap of Robert's finger, the car lurches with such violence that it knocks all of the air out of his lungs. The engine roars, the smell of burning rubber and sulphur permeates the air, and after another bone-rattling jolt they shoot forwards so quickly that Aaron's stomach can't hope to keep up, and it drops to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

Outside, the walls and fields and sheep blur together, whipping past the car in a confusing stream of light and colour that makes Aaron a little nauseous again. He tries to close his eyes against the sight, but even his eyelids are too heavy to move. The rest of his body feels as though it's being held down by some giant, invisible hand, pressing hard against his ribcage.

It's impossible for him to see where they're heading now, and he can't imagine it's any easier for Robert. The road they're on is hardly straight; they could be pointed straight at a wall, or a ditch, or...

Or, judging by the mud splattering across the windscreen and the rumbling of the car's wheels, straight into a field.

Robert slams on the brakes, and they eventually judder and rock and squelch to an unsteady halt several interminably long seconds later. Aaron takes a deep, shuddering breath in, then sighs out a heartfelt, "Fuck," on the exhale. Beside him, Robert groans, then hunches forward and lets his head fall heavily against the centre of the steering wheel. The horn blares. It sounds like someone screaming.

After taking a quiet moment to allow his thundering heartrate to slow to something approaching normal levels and his stomach to resettle itself in its proper place once more, Aaron asks, "What the fuck was that all about?"

"You said you weren't scared," Robert says; a little petulantly, as though he'd been insulted by that.

"It wasn't a _complaint_ ," Aaron says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to stave off the incipient return of his headache. "Jesus, I thought we'd agreed not to do this unless it was essential to... to whatever the fuck it is you're planning to do about Lawrence."

Robert makes a noncommittal noise in response which suggests that he had perhaps chosen to regard it as a suggestion rather an agreement of any kind. If they weren't stranded in the arse-end of fuck-knows-where, Aaron would be done with his shit. As it is, though, he not only has no idea of where they are, he hasn't got the first clue how the hell Robert's weird demon-car even starts, so punching him out and taking over – which is currently the most tempting of the limited options on offer – is just as out of the question as simply walking away.

Instead, he tries to distract himself for long enough for the need to do violence to safely ebb away. The only thing of any interest in his field of vision is the touchscreen Robert had been messing with earlier, and he leans over to take a closer look at it.

It shows what appears to be a list of – very strangely named – settings, within which 'Hounds of Hell' is currently selected. Aaron scrolls through the 'Demonic Essence's and 'Hellfire's, looking for anything approaching an entry that might reasonably be expected to conceal a normal function of a car, but every single one seems as though it could be the title to a particularly crap horror film.

When he reaches 'Lucifer's Rest', however, Robert stays his hand with a glancingly brief touch to his elbow.

"I think you'll like that one," he says.

Aaron snatches his finger away immediately.

"Oh, for..." Robert huffs, and taps the screen himself.

The console between their two seats makes a high-pitched whine, and splits apart, the two halves sliding up and back, releasing a blast of cold air as they reveal a silver-lined compartment. Inside, there are four bottles of lager, glistening with condensation.

"The bar," Robert says, picking up two of the bottles. He opens them with the bottle opener that helpfully slides out from the side of the chilled compartment, and hands one to Aaron.

Aaron sniffs at it dubiously, which makes Robert crack a smile for the first time, though it's a small, brittle-looking attempt that barely deserves to be called as such. "Poison's Chrissie's thing, not mine."

He takes a long swig from his own bottle as though in demonstration, and, after a short pause to make sure he doesn't turn puce or vomit blood, Aaron follows suit.

Despite himself, the lager goes a long way towards improving Aaron's mood, and by the time he's drained the bottle dry, he's mostly resigned himself to his situation, if not forgiven Robert for putting him in it.

It seems to have the opposite effect on Robert. His scowl gets increasingly deeper set as he drinks, his shoulders stiffer, and head held ever more tensely.

Then he starts to shuffle in his seat, turning his body towards Aaron and then away again, and swiping his tongue back and forth across his bottom lip every time he opens his mouth only to snap it closed again a moment later. A constant ripple of sharply aborted movements that make him seem as though he's about to vibrate straight out of his skin if he doesn't do or say whatever it is that's he's so obviously holding himself back from.

It's annoying enough to watch that Aaron _has_ to ask, if only in the hopes that he settle down enough to stop doing it afterwards. "What," he begins grudgingly, but apparently that on its own is sufficient acknowledgement to get Robert talking, because he's quick to interrupt with:

"Diane gave Andy my dad's wedding ring. He's having it melted down to make two for him and Katie."

"Right," Aaron says slowly, thoroughly nonplussed. "And what's that got to do with" – me, us, this – " _anything_."

Robert turns his scowl down onto the bottle in his hand, scratching at the damp label with the side of his thumbnail until it tatters. "That's one of the functions of the Arching relationships," he says with a loose shrug. "Working out your... frustrations in a controlled way."

Aaron can understand that, the odd punch-up to release a bit of steam, but he very much doubts that a shared beer and whinge was what the Guild had in mind.

"But we don't have a 'relationship', Arching or otherwise," he says firmly, because he really doesn't want to leave any doubt in Robert's mind that this can ever happen again. "I promised I'd help you with Lawrence, and I will, but that's it. I don't care about the supervillain stuff, or what the Guild says you're allowed to do, and I really don't give a shit about your family problems. Talk to your fiancée about it, or your mates - if you've got any – but leave me out of it.

"Something like this happens again, then the deal's off, okay?"

Robert scowls some more, and moans and grumbles, but does eventually offer his own resentful-sounding, "Okay," in return.

Aaron can only hope he means it this time.


End file.
